


A Piece of Me

by abundantlyqueer



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-11-18
Updated: 2003-11-18
Packaged: 2017-10-13 01:12:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/131148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abundantlyqueer/pseuds/abundantlyqueer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>"Why don't you just fuck off?" Dom says with razor precise enunciation, as if he's afraid Orli won't hear over the music and laughter and tinkle of glass on glass.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	A Piece of Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thalassatx](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=thalassatx), [tootsiemuppet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tootsiemuppet/gifts).



> A/N: for thalassatx who wanted 'Domlando – in the rain', and tootsiemuppet who helped me relocate the inspirational text after I mislaid it.

  
"Fuckin' prick," Dom mutters into his almost empty beer glass as he tips it up and drains the last half-inch out of it.  
"Ach, don' pay any attention to 'im, he doesn'ah mean anythin' by it," Billy says soothingly, though he can't help but cast an anxious glance towards the bar, where Orli's long lean frame and purple shirt and yellow-blond Mohawk are conspicuous even among the club's trendy Karangahape Road clientele.  
"Fuckin' prick," Dom says implacably.  
Orli gracefully twists himself free of the press of beautiful people at the bar and returns to the table, three freshly filled pint glasses braced between his long fingers.  
"Painkiller," he says, all white-teeth smile and faintly sunburned cheekbones and inky brown eyes, as he sets one glass down in front of Dom.  
"Why don't you just _fuck off_?" Dom says with razor precise enunciation, as if he's afraid Orli won't hear over the music and laughter and tinkle of glass on glass.  
For a second Orli's smile unfolds into blank dismay and his eyes melt wide with apology, but just as fast his jaw sets hard and his eyes narrow in an uncharacteristic display of cold annoyance.  
"Alright man," he says tightly. "You wanna tell me what the _fuck_ your problem is?"  
"My problem?" Dom echoes, outraged, as if the very question itself is the final insult that's tipping him over the edge into outright anger. "My problem is you, Bloom. My problem is what part of 'keep your fuckin' hands to yourself' don't you get? Eh?"  
"Jesus, Dom," Orli protests, and there's a note of plaintive appeal in his voice that undercuts his righteously furious scowl. "You've been moaning about your arms all week and you think I'm _not_ gonna take advantage? You made such a big deal out of it -- what did you bloody expect me to do?"  
"Lads," Billy cuts in, mouth curled in a rather rigid smile, eyes wide and worried. "We're all tired and sore and a wee bit tetchy; let's jus' drink up and then we'll away off back to the hotel and get a nice early night."  
Orli drops down onto his seat, wipes one hand down over his face and emerges looking wearier but more composed. Dom sighs out a great breath of resignation and nods grudgingly.  
"Right so," Billy beams.  
By imposing determined cheeriness and a complete embargo on any discussion of fight-training, Billy manages to restore the conversation to something resembling normality. Indeed, he does such a good job that when the glasses get low again, Dom suggests they get one more for the road, and Orli agrees. Billy has only the very slightest sense that they might be pushing their luck, but it's his round and he doesn't want to seem like he's cheap-skating, so he gets up to go the bar. Orli gets up too, and heads for the men's room. When Billy returns to the table, three more pints clutched precariously against his chest, Orli's still absent.  
"I'm sorry Bills," Dom says sheepishly. "It can't be much fun for you, trying to keep the peace between us two."  
"Don' worry about it. Yeh're not a bad bloke – he's not a bad bloke either. Yeh jus' can't help yerselves from bugging the fuckin' shite outta someone every fuckin' opportunity yeh get."  
Dom laughs, a brief dry bark that testifies to just how exhausted he is. Billy, smiling, glances up at Orli approaching from the direction of the men's room – behind Dom.  
Billy sees, as if with preternatural clarity, Orli staring in awful fascination at the tightening curve at the back of Dom's arm as Dom raises his glass to his lips. Orli tucks his hands into the pockets of his outsized combat pants. Billy relaxes, realizing even Orli isn't insane enough to push Dom one bit further tonight, then remembers Orli's insane enough for _anything_. And Orli's expression is already collapsing into guilty relief and indescribable delight and even though Billy can't possibly see from where he's sitting, he will never be able to convince himself that he didn't witness Orli's taper fingertips plucking ruthlessly at Dom's tense flesh.  
Dom, caught in mid-action returning his glass to the table, loses his grip enough to allow the glass to drop the last inch or two and slop out the top couple of inches of beer onto the table.  
"Motherfucker!" Dom howls, more as an expression of pain than an actual reproach. Even above the noise of the club, people at nearby tables hear enough to make them turn their heads and stare for a moment.  
Orli folds down onto the seat next to Dom's, leans back and drapes himself insolently elbows-first on the table, head tipped up and back, laughing his low lazy laugh and watching Dom's grimacing and growling from under the half-curtain of his dark eyelashes. Billy feels Orli couldn't make this any worse if he were actively trying to – which Billy knows he's not.  
"Bloom, you fuckin' bastard, you do that one more time and so help me God I'll take your fuckin' hand off at the shoulder and shove it up your fuckin' arse," Dom snaps.  
"Oh _now_ I'm scared," Orli crows. He's reclining between seat and table at a forty-five degree angle, blond head tip-tilted to one side, purple shirt hanging back from the nape of his neck, long legs and leopard-print Docs stuck out into the walkway so people have to step over them. "Ooh, ooh, please don't hurt me Dommie, you short-arsed little bastard."  
Even Billy bristles at bit at that, because, hey, not everyone _wants_ to be a long fuckin' drink of water like Orli. A girl in a pair of drain-pipe denims and a black PVC blazer steps over Orli's boots, and Orli, already over-stimulated to the point of insufferability, clicks her a wink.  
"How you doin' darlin'?" he grins. She gives him the kind of look women usually reserve for half-wrapped food leftovers rediscovered in the back of the refrigerator after six or eight weeks. Orli, past the point of shame, let alone dignity, pouts a noisy kiss at her as she disappears into the crowd again.  
"You're such a fuckin' wanker!" Dom snaps, drawing one booted foot up and shoving it hard enough against Orli's hip that Orli's seat tips and Orli's deposited unceremoniously in a heap on the floor.  
"You little shit!" Orli snarls, scrambling off the floor and looming over Dom's seat. "Come on, get on your feet so I can kick your arse!"  
"You're gonna kick _my_ arse?" Dom sneers, shoving up off his seat and jabbing his face up close to Orli's. "I don't fuckin' think so – you're not _actually_ an elf Orli."  
Orli relieves his feelings – even if he doesn't exactly answer Dom's critique – by slapping Dom across the face with the flat of his hand, hard enough to force Dom to stagger back a step to retain his balance.  
"He fuckin' bitch-slapped me," Dom howls in disbelief, throwing an appealing glance at Billy, who's staring at them both in open-mouthed horror.  
"Because you're being a fuckin' bitch," Orli says.  
"Okay, that's it, I'm gonna fuckin' kill you," Dom snarls, stepping forward again and setting his shoulders and jaw in a way that makes all the quirky irregularity of his form turn to ominously jagged edges.  
"Oh yeah you're very fuckin' tough man – for a hobbit."  
"I'm tough enough to stamp your fuckin' card Jimmy," Dom spits, snatching at a fistful of the front of Orli's shirt.  
Orli closes one hand around Dom's grip, the other around the top of Dom's right arm, fingertips indenting into the muscle, hard enough to turn Orli's knuckles white. Dom grimaces, exhaling between clenched teeth, but the pain doesn't make him back off; on the contrary, it just fuels his determination to beat Orli to a bloody pulp.  
"A'right, tha's it," Billy shouts, his tone so uncharacteristically furious that Dom and Orli let go of each other and step back and stare at Billy in surprised silence. "We're leavin'."  
He grabs both men by the shirt-backs and herds them towards the exit-only door at the rear of the club. The three of them shoulder their way out of the door, then pause under the sheltering canopy outside.  
"Oh _perfect_ ," Billy says, realizing there's fat streams of rainwater piddling off every corner of the canopy, and rain clattering overhead on the canopy and the parked cars, rain hanging in heavy sheets all around them, rain melting into puddles and pools, and everything glittering and shivering and turning streetlight-reflections into diamonds on the black asphalt.  
Billy backs up a couple of steps and digs for his cell-phone.  
"Behave yerselves for one fuckin' minute an' I'll get us a taxi," he says.  
Dom, hands deep in his pockets and his shoulders hunched, studies his boot toes gloomily.  
Orli moves to the very edge of the area sheltered by the canopy, tipping his face up to let a few heavy rain drops fall on him. Dom's watching him out of the corner of his eye. Orli steps out, into a puddle, head thrown back, eyes half-closed and offered to the black sky. Dom's mouth twists into a disgusted grimace. Fuckin' poser.  
"So it's true," Dom says snidely, "you really don't have the fuckin' sense to come in outta the rain."  
Orli's expression sets a little harder, and as he wheels slowly, offering every side of himself up to the soaking rain, he gives Dom a deliberate, almost elegant, two-fingered salute.  
"Pretentious fuckin' shite," Dom says, raising his voice a little to be sure Orli hears him over the hiss of the rain.  
"Grubby little shit."  
Dom lets rip a yell of pure fury and launches himself out into the rain. Orli has one second to prepare himself for the impact, and he does a good enough job to stay on his feet. Billy, who's turned his back on them while he wrangles for a taxi in under twenty minutes on a Friday night in the party capital of New Zealand, turns back, alerted by Dom's war cry. Dom grabs hold of the sodden shoulder of Orli's shirt with his left hand, draws his right back, fisted, ready for the punch. Orli makes a sketchy attempt at a block with his left hand and lashes out fast as he can with the right, catching Dom tightly under the jaw. Dom thrashes, his hands automatically flying to Orli's grip on his throat.  
Billy, who hasn't lifted his hand in anger since he was nine years old, starts forward a couple of steps, then stops abruptly. Suppose he does get between them – what's to say they won't forget their differences in their haste to beat _him_ bloody instead?  
Orli and Dom scuffle for a second or two, each seeking some advantage of weight or leverage, Dom still struggling to pry off Orli's hand, Orli still intent on maintaining his grip despite Dom's claws. Suddenly Orli changes tactics, plunging his face into the warmly wet space between Dom's throat and shirt collar. Dom howls, his whole body arching until he's braced between his boot toes and Orli's grip on his throat.  
"Sweet mother a'God," Billy says shakily. They're really gonna do it – they're really gonna kill each other.  
Billy forces himself forward again. Orli wrenches his head up, teeth bared but not – thank God – bloody. He and Dom grapple, Orli still holding Dom by the throat, Dom shifting his grip to the back of Orli's hair and neck. They stumble and Orli seems to have the upper hand, forcing Dom backwards until he fetches up against the front wing of a parked car. Orli lunges again, his open mouth crashing down on Dom's, and Billy can see the white-knuckled force with which Dom's pulling – that can't be right – Orli down closer, and the hand that Orli doesn't have wrapped around Dom's throat is busy clawing its way inside Dom's shirt and under – no that's definitely not right – Dom's tee shirt.  
"Ah fer fuck's sake," Billy says as he realizes they're not actually trying to chew each other's tongues out. At least, not maliciously. "Tha's jus' sick."  
Orli and Dom aren't paying the slightest attention. They wrench apart again, and Orli bodily lifts Dom and - shit Orli's stronger than you'd think to look at him, all limbs and long bones as he is – throws Dom onto the hood of the car and the car hood makes a thick thunking noise as the bodywork flexes and accepts the impact, and Dom's boot heels make frantic slippery squeaks on the metal as Dom tries to get some purchase against the front wing of the car. Orli, however, grabs Dom by the hip pockets and yanks him forward again so Dom's feet dangle in thin air and Dom falls back for a second. Then he kicks out, snaking both legs around Orli's hips, and jerks Orli in tight, boots locking together at the back of Orli's thighs. Dom whiplashes upright again, hooking one hand around the nape of Orli's neck and the other into Orli's already sodden canvas crotch.  
"Fuck you, fuck you," Dom sneers against Orli's lips and Orli shuts him up by the simple expedient of shoving his own tongue back into Dom's mouth.  
Orli wrestles with the button and zipper on Dom's jeans: the denim's wetly stiff and the zipper runs only reluctantly. When Orli finally has it open, he finds the denim clings to Dom's skin, and it takes an inelegant amount of tugging and shoving to finally insinuate his hand down the front of Dom's underwear and wrap his fingers around the clammy heated skin of Dom's hard cock.  
"Yeah, come on," Dom growls, scraping his teeth over Orli's lips. "I feel like my skin's gonna fuckin' split open."  
"I know. I'm goin' fuckin' insane," Orli pants, scrabbling at his own belt and buttons, and thankfully the worn canvas of his combat pants has soaked up ten-times its own weight in rainwater and once Orli unbuckles his belt and opens the top two buttons of his fly, his pants surrender to gravity and drop like a soggy rock.  
"Jesus!" Billy protests, averting his head. "Yeh're in public, yeh dirty pair a' whoores!" Billy's beginning to think it was better when they just wanted to kill each other – manly aggression plays better in the popular press than public obscenity, especially homosexual public obscenity.  
"Hear that?" Orli sniggers. "Billy thinks you're a dirty whore."  
"State the fuckin' obvious," Dom growls, digging both hands down the front of Orli's boxers, gripping Orli's cock with one hand and gathering his balls into the other. "Anyway, I think he was talking to you."  
"Shut the fuck up bitch," Orli says. "I'm gonna come any fuckin' second here."  
"Typical, no fuckin' stamina," Dom complains, tugging Orli's balls because he knows that'll finish Orli quicker than any other single thing.  
"I said shut up, bitch."  
"Bastard."  
"Cunt."  
"Prick."  
"Oh now you're fuckin' getting' the idea," Orli slurs, one hand pulling and pushing on Dom's cock, the other flat on the small of Dom's back, keeping him pinned.  
The rain, if possible, gets even heavier. Dom's hair clings darkly to his head, his eyelashes spiked together, his mouth shiny with spit and water. He has to gulp for air, sputtering out water between every other breath. Orli's mohawk crest stands up in wet quills, and his shirt is plastered against his skin. Their hands slip and catch and slip again, water's an inadequate lubricant at the best of times, until fingertips find the slick smears of precum and everything just … slides …  
"Jesus it's like fuckin' surfin'," Dom yells, twisting himself up into Orli's hand.  
"That good?" Orli gasps, his breath going quicker and quicker and …  
"That fuckin' wet," Dom says, water spattering off his teeth when he grins.  
"Oh yeah, oh fuck, oh _fuck_ ," Orli growls and Dom feels the rapid pulse and wave of warmth between his fingers, cut all too quickly by cooler rainwater rivering off the already sodden tails of Orli's shirt and piddling onto Dom's hand.  
"You gonna come for me?" Orli growls against Dom's ear, before the beat of his orgasm has even finished.  
"Y'gonna – fuckin' – make me?" Dom challenges, wrapping both arms tight around Orli's neck and digging his boot heels into Orli's bare ass.  
"Yeah, come on, come on Dommie," Orli urges, his hand hastily sliding down from Dom's spine into the back of Dom's jeans, pushing and poking and fouling on the water-logged cotton of Dom's underwear.  
"Orli?" Dom says shakily as he hitches himself higher, trying to make things a little easier for Orli to reach, but with both of Orli's long broad hands and Dom's epic fucking erection and aching balls there is no more fuckin' _room_ in Dom's shorts.  
"Just fuckin' do it for me man," Orli says urgently.  
Dom writhes, and – whoa – something slips and Dom fuckin' levitates six inches above the car's hood as Orli's finger prods him in the asshole and God forgive him for the perverted freak he is, but it's the random indignity of the thing that actually makes Dom well up and out and if he curls his pelvis up one inch higher he can probably hit Orli in the face with the arc of -  
"Way to fuckin' go Dom," Orli laughs, letting Dom unravel out of his grip, letting him spill back on the hood of the car, limbs every which way, rain already washing away the semi-translucent gout of come from Dom's bare stomach.  
"Come on," Orli says at last, when Dom seems content to remain there and drown. "We should go." He hitches his underwear and pants up around his hips again, emptying a bucket's worth of rainwater out of his pockets in the process. "Hey, Billy -- "  
Orli glances toward the club door and looks perplexed when he sees Billy's gone.  
"Where'd Billy go?"  
"You thought he was watchin'? Y'fuckin' exhibitionist," Dom smirks.  
"I'm not the one laid out on someone's car like a fuckin' deli lunch."  
"Ew, aren't we a sarkey fucker, then?"  
"Get up Monaghan."  
"It'll take a minute, even with my superhuman powers of recovery."  
"Get off the car. I'm not fuckin' kiddin'."  
"Get me off."  
"You're fuckin' insatiable."  
"So you admit you can't satisfy me?"  
"Shut that fuckin' mouth or I'll shut it for you."  
"Oh, you wanna fuckin' piece a'me?"  
 _etc, etc, etc …_  



End file.
